Mirror mirror
On the wall,
Who’s the most shattered
of them all?
Aligned with the cracked glass,
I feel broken.
Each scar of self-harm
Leads to a line of tokens—
Every scratch and crack in the mirror
Is a symbol of self hate
that plagues my heart.
Soon to fall apart
And rot in the mirror…

Mirror mirror
On the wall,
Who’s the most fallen of them all?
Hidden and forgotten
in the dust of cobwebs
In your attic.
I ask for help,
But aligned with the smashed glass,
I feel stolen and trapped
Under the illusion of no hope—
Bruised and abused.
Left in confusion,
Losing people like flies,
Leaving shattered moments
in pieces scattered across the floor,
Only then I feel heartbroken.

Mirror mirror
On the wall,
What have I done wrong
To become aligned with
This broken mirror?

I walked into a Mel’s diner on Santa Monica and Lincoln Blvd one time.
It was a rainy Sunday afternoon.
The gray clouds surround the diner.
Loud raindrops clashing the glass windows.
The lights of the cars and buildings shine a warm yellow bright light in the dark skies.
The cold breeze sends chills down my spine through my sweater.
As I entered into the diner with a warm air, welcoming my face and skin.
A smell of greasy burgers and fries being cooked by a chef,
who looks to be in his 40’s or older.
I hear groups of families talking and laughing.
A couple in their teens kissing and cuddling together against the window of the booth.
A Jukebox is playing a song called “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac in the back.
And there I see an old friend, Allan, sitting in one of the booths, drinking his coffee.
He was excited to talk to me since we haven’t seen each other in ages.
I met him, gave him a hug and sat down.
It’s been a while and something has reminded me of the things that hurts me.
But I try to smile through the ghosts of the past.
The ghosts of pain and sorrow.
“Rainy, isn’t it?” Allan replied.
“Yea…” I sighed, dripping wet.
We sat there for a bit and talked for what felt like hours.
Tried to catch up with our own lives.
The atmosphere however felt a bit awkward.
I started to lose myself in the distance.
His words becoming blurred in the back of my head.
My breath becoming heavy.
“You ok?” Allan worried.
“Yea…sorry-I didn’t mean to like…fade away.”
I said as my right hand is really shaking.
Sweating too.
He noticed and said
“It’s ok. What’s on your mind?”
Just then a waiter walks over
And refills my coffee but left Allan’s cup Empty.
“You good?” The waiter asked.
“Sorry but why didn’t you refill my friend’s cup of coffee?” I questioned.
The waiter looked confused and just stared at me for a solid minute.
Then walked away.
“What’s wrong?” Allan asked,
looking confused and concerned.
So…
I grab a pocket knife from my pocket
And gently put it on the sticky table of the diner.
“Please tell me why you have a pocket knife?” Allan asked.
His dark brown eyes looked down at the knife for a minute.
Then looks back at me.
“I don’t know.” I replied.
“Oh come on! Tell me!”
“Ok, fine…I keep it in case…if I ever wanted to go…”
“Go where?” Allan questioned with a look in his eyes.
“In case if I decide to wanna die, okay?”
The diner felt silent.
The coffee felt really cold but the room felt really hot.
Allan looks really worried and scared. As if he saw a ghost.
“Having the knife here helps show me that there’s a way out…”
“Why?” Allan asked once more.
“I DON’T KNOW, ALLAN! I DON’T KNOW!
I felt like I’ve lost hope in my life!
The bitter memories of you and me…
hurts me everyday.
I’ve cried every time but I try to hide it in the inside so you won’t see it.
After I’ve failed to be a great friend, I’ve hated myself…
I felt like every time I talk to you,
Or see you, I’d always think of those moments.
Then I start to sink through…
Life is just too **** hard and
you’re gone…
So it helps to know that there’s a way out…”
Tears start to flow down.
I felt like I’ve drowned in an ocean full of lost emotions.
I’ve gotten up and ran into the bathroom.
The light was grimy and dark.
My right hand is shaking in the worst way possible.
I look into the cracked mirror. I see myself, broken…
Then I see Allan behind me, worried.
“Hey…” Allan spoke, trying to comfort me.
We then sat on the bathroom floor.
I can see the crooked man in the mirror.
“I’d wished life has gotten better, but it has gotten bitter each time I’m alone.”
He then hugs me close as I began to cry.
“I know…and I’m sorry.
I’d wish it didn’t turned out how it happened.
Sometimes we feel vulnerable.
We struggle with the problems that occurs
out of nowhere and we crumble.
Hell, makes you feel uncomfortable because
you think of the painful regrets in your head that plays over and over.
Then it leads you into this.
This hateful self you feel because of what you can’t control.
But I want you to know this…
You are loved. You will always be.
And being alive today is the most strongest thing you can ever do!
Don’t let that crooked man **** you.”
He then grabs the pocket knife from his jacket.
“Can I keep this?” Allan requested.
“Y-yea…you can…It was yours anyways…”
I spoke quietly, trying to pull myself together.
“It’s ok, I will always be here.”
He said softly as he points at my shattered heart.
A few minutes later, I walked out and sat down.
“You okay?” A waiter asked.
“Yea..sorry” I said and handed $20 dollars
To the waiter and left Mel’s Diner.
I went outside across the street in the rain.
I saw Allan one more time in the yellow warm light of the window.
Then a truck passes by and I don’t see him anymore.
I hope he’s doing ok high up there.
I’m glad I get to say “hi” for the final time.

It’s Twelve to midnight,
The cold moonlight shines
so bright across the October night.
I go outside for a walk with my dog.
The sky falls into a dark void filled with nothing.
The world stands still.
An owl coos in the pitch black
crooked trees that stand tall.
Surrounding every corner I go.
Each foot-step crunches beneath my feet
With leaves scattered across the concrete.
Screaming in pain.
The wind sings under the Harvest moon,
like lost souls.
Sending chills down my spine with paranoia.
Streetlights shining so grim and dark
With a yellow glow that shows the way
Through that cursed path that leads beneath the dark.
Crickets chirping loudly through the dimmed,
quiet neighborhood.  
My breathing becomes heavy.
Each heartbeat grows louder and louder with anxiety.
Feeling this unease tension in the black void.
Feeling like I’m watched.
Stalked through my night walk.
Then a crash breaks the silence.
A trashcan falls over.
The night swallows the sound whole,
Followed by a creepy whistle echoing through the night.
I turn around…
Under one streetlight,
I see a tall, skinny dark figure just standing there.
Its eyes staring me down with its wide,
uncanny smile. Like I’m its prey in its sight.
It felt like a while.
Its arms and legs contorted and crooked,
Bones poking through flesh of its skin.
Then for a moment
I hear an alarm on my phone.
It’s an Amber Alert…

“A creature called
‘The Crooked man’
lurks in the neighborhood at midnight.
A total of five people went missing last week.
If you see this creature,
Stay in shelters imminently!
Don’t let anyone in and
Don’t trust the voices inside!”

There I stand.
The light vanishes into darkness
And the song stops playing.
I can’t see for a moment.
Then out of nowhere,
it lunges at me.
The last thing
I saw… is its smile.

I wake up,
Past twelve through midnight
In my bed.
It was all in my head…
Or is it?
As I see an Amber Alert on my phone with a message
“Don’t let the crooked man in…”
Then…Whistling…

Each breath
is a reminder of the regrets
living in her body like a cancer…

Breathe in…
One, Two, Three…
Breathe out…
Now my mom’s free,
Or so she thought.
The smoke sends an illusion of peace.
The smell of ember burning,
getting closer and closer to death’s door
as it eats away the cigarettes,
While the time ticks slowly.
Each moment she lights the lighter,
The fire dances,
sending chills down her spine…

She knows it’s bad—
She said to me that she will get better,
but she gets bitter each minute
she holds the box of cigarettes
With the regrets she won’t let go.

Breathe in…
One, Two, Three…
Breathe out…
I don’t recognize my mom anymore.
I miss the old her.
The one who smiles and laughs,
Like a kid at a park.
Or whenever I cry with the fear of her dying
And disappearing,
she would hug me close and told me this;
“Don’t worry, baby…
Mama won’t let go of you.”
Now, she clutches a box of cigarettes.
Each breath she breathes
is a broken promise.
The mom I knew is fading in the smoke.
The mom I knew is in this photo,
But I want the real her.

Breathe in…
One, Two, Three…
Breathe out…
Now my mom’s gone from my life.

Your mind is a powerful place and
It can affect you in a powerful way
Depending on what you feed.
But it’s not always safe, see?
Your mind can leave you behind.
In a hurricane full of regrets and mistakes.
Your mind can throw you in a maze out of nowhere.
But what amazed me though is the fact that it can leave you
Threats.

See? Your mind is like a puppeteer
Controlling your thoughts and fears.
Sometimes you feel as if you’re floating off into
Space, and everyday you’re hoping it goes away.
Well actually…

Your mind can feed you anxiety, leading you
In a spiral of insanity of no hope.
Having the ability to shatter reality and
affecting you mentally.
Then you sit there silently because it won’t
Let go.

Then you look at yourself in the reflections,
aim at your direction,
and shoot your perception
With hate.

In fact come to think of it,
Let this sink in.
Your mind is like an act on stage
Because the things you might believe are not real.
I know that sounds strange.
Sure, you might feel as if you’re locked in a cage.
Can’t even stop yourself from reading the same page
Of the past, over and over again.
Sometimes you don’t know when to begin to love yourself.

But is that where we all struggle the most?

The Sun dies
And the Moon rises high.
Dark dead trees dancing away
To the mellow song.
Crows singing through the darkened
forest of dusk.
The Foolish Dreamers follow the path.
Where lies the Hunter,
who lives near Blood Orange Valley,
Where the wind of feared children screams
in pain for peace as the sun bleeds
against the cut fields.

The Hunter lives in the forest
amongst the Shadows of Judgement.
He wears a hollow mask of a bear,
To scare the Spirits away who tear the
face of a Castaway, covered with scars.
A teeth of the beast,
Worn to be protected of fear from afar.
Striking down the dead trees,
His axe raised high,
shoulders heavy as stone,
Each swing echoes,
a crack through the bones
Of diseased trees and roots
of Blood Orange Valley,
to clear the path for the feared ones who suffered.
Fur boots crunch the ground paths
as he voyages forever more.

The Valley bleeds red,
The Hunter’s own scar
runs deep in the dead forest.
The Valley and he,
both carved by memories.
He carries the tokens of broken luck,
Mementos of fallen dreams that scream.
He listens to the song sparrow echoing,
Of the long river flow to follow the path of Hope,
whispering stories of ancient fights,
lost hopes, and strange, forgotten nights.
To this day, the wind hums the heartbeat drums in
Blood Orange Valley,
where lies the Hunter who hunts for Hope.

I haven’t written this **** yet so here we go…
It hits me every time I sit on a red couch.
Sometimes I wanna gouge my eyes out.
Sometimes I feel sick.
I used to be surrounded with comfort
Against the fabric.
Now it brings in dead torture.
Once, I had a friend I used to like…
Or so I thought…
You see?
I regret tellin’ him I liked him,
More than friends.
Shouldn’t cuddle with him,
or hold his hand…
Or lean in to kiss him.
But I was in the moment.
My heart skipped a beat when he said
“I love you”.

Now it goes from a “I love you” to a
“I didn’t wanna hurt you the same with Ethan”
Which left me bitter and broken.
I don’t hate him because
he made a promise he couldn’t keep.
I mean I wish I’d forget this ever happened.
He said something that made me not trust again.
He leaned in after the kiss and whispered
“If you want me to let go, that’s fine,
but if you don’t say anything,
I won’t let go of you.”
I hate him now because I hate believing it.
I hate myself.
I realized I was an act for his entertainment
Of his loneliness.
He left me on silent for a while after.
So I cut the thread and left the moment dead.
Leaving that red couch cold.

BEEP
Hey…
Um…
If you’re listening to this audio recording,
Um…
I wanted to say I miss you.
I haven’t seen or heard from you in a while, and…
I know what you're going through hurts you…
Um..
It’s ok to not be ok,
and I’m sorry that it hurts.
I really am.
But um…
I know everything will be ok and…
Well, I know that sounds cliche but
I'm not just saying this.
I know it will get better soon.
I want you to know you’re not alone.
Just don’t let go of hope, ok?
I love you…
*BEEP

As many artists say,
They have one thing in common.
They try to live to the fullest moment.
By that, they live in their own agony.
They let themselves almost get killed
By their own art just to get the voices out.
Critics leaving voicemails of death threats
under the beds in their heads.
Following a spiral stairwell down to hell.
Getting Inspired by the worst current events.
The artist never let themselves think.
Thinking might just let them sink underneath
their dreams,
Feeling unheard.

For a painter,
they just throw ink and splatter paint
onto a canvas full of bright and dark colors.

For a rapper,
they rap in rhymes and rhythm
full of realism.
They’re not just trying to be a spokesman,
they’re just a broken person carrying a mic
full of mistaken burdens over a mountain.
Leading them in a journey for Hope.

Poets and writers are rotten in a mental prison
with a journal filled with poems and written chapters
they write while they fight and ****
the devil with a pencil in their mind
throughout the night.

Actors actin’
on a part that they don’t even recognize,
But they can entertain an audience with a smile
and a good show.
Their whole life is a stage to them.
Even when curtains close,
you never know the real them
because they’re going with the flow,
playing their parts.

Without using our tragedy as art to tell stories
Is like saying a painter with no paintbrush,
canvas or paint color.
A rapper with no beat, rhythm or rhyme.
Getting lost in the path of no hope.
A writer with no crow and no Idea what to write.
It’s just pointless without a pencil and no demons to fight.
An actor not knowing how to act in their part
of a bitter situation.

How can I use art to stitch up
my heart with a thread that would soon fall again?
How can I be the artist if I can’t be a realist
and speak my mouth out with the hardest subjects
and darkest moments
that will soon have the crooked man ******
me in my sleep?

There was a man
who did bad things.
The people called him
“The Bad Man”.
They say he murdered three—
He lives a land amongst the trees.
He steals broken souls of burden
and hangs them on the Hanging Tree—
Their bodies swaying,
Forbidden momentos,
Burns like fire,
The shadows called him
“The Bad Man”,
Though the bad
was never in his tired hands.

The wind carries screams
of stray memories,
crying to be free.
The Bad Man
who sees the tragic flourish
Dark magic in the midnight of the
Hanging Tree…

The Dead echos the bad,
chopping the heart into pieces
with the Hunter’s sharp axe,
bleeding into the stitched
fabric of stolen trust—
From one who once stood by him to protect.
Now lost in the woods of neglect.

The people called him
“The Bad Man”,
Though he’s trapped—
Lost in the decay paths of the betrayed,
Forever In the Hunter’s Bird Cage.

I drink this tea.
I lost the voice in me.
I feel empty.
I can barely speak.
I’m lonely in my mind.
I’m losing time.
I hear the voice becoming hungry, having anxiety yelling at me.
My mind Turns into a Heavenly Hell.
So I write poetry to **** the voice silently
From within.
While I’m drinking my tea to get the
voice of me back so I may speak again.

There was a man who can see clearly.
Both the sunshine and darkness.
“Cut my eye that sees darkness.
I want to see the sunshine more”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did…
The man immediately left
to fulfill his destiny to be happy.
To only see the sunshine.

There was a man who can hear clearly.
“Cut one ear that hears pain so I can
Hear the joy and laughter once more!”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did…
The man leaves as he hears
the Illusions of laughter and joy.
But the man doesn’t know the confusion
that lies.

There was a man who can speak.
“Sow my mouth closed! I don’t want
The lost voices to sneak out!”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did.

Then there was a boy
Who has one eye,
One ear,
And a sewn mouth.
He grabs a piece of paper.
He writes
“Give me an eye that sees darkness,
And ear to hear the sorrow that follows,
And cut my mouth open so I may speak out…”

“Why?” The Doctor replied.
Then the boy writes:

“If the truth hurts.
Then kindness must be a lie.
And if I sit there silently with these lies and Illusions,
What would that do if we don’t take the time to embrace
The pain and bitter memories that lies beneath me?
To speak out the truth of that false love and joy
that we fake ourselves to cover the heart that bleeds,
instead of treating it properly?

And at the same time…
How can I write poetry with these
angels of the shadows that sings mellow songs
and tells tales of hope that
lies in the forest roads to the unknown, doctor?”

I hold a box of tissues.
I try to clean up a mind filled with issues.
A heart filled with wounds.
Rooms filled with abuse that intrudes.
To tell you the truth, they can’t be removed.
Then I lose myself.
But instead of sitting and
crying with tissues in my hands.
I choose to write my issues through
poems filled with words and rhymes
like Dr. Seuss to tell the truth from a wounded soul.
These tissues will not be enough to solve my issues.

There was a silent boy,
Who used to have a lot of joy in his heart.
Until he fell apart.
The boy’s emotions were toyed by the bitter moments.
Life destroying him little by little.
Problems yelling in his head,
Even though those negative thoughts should’ve been dead already.
But the silent boy still stands there silently…

I burry myself with the anger. 
Hang myself with the same problems 
with a hanger. 
Go out with a banger, 
but every time I do,
I fall flat get my mouth slap 

Then I get kicked out and spit on. 
Then I blame myself with the anger, 
set myself up in flames.
Throwin’ hate in my name, 
lookin at myself in the reflection, 
aim at my direction, 
shoot at my perception with shame. 

Then I go insane, 
throwin myself in a hurricane, 
my life is a train reck, 
I try to maintain, 
meanwhile I’m entertaining a crowd that complains, 
my brain is a stage that’s set aflame, 
chained up with sorrows and pain of no hope I wanna let go,
Why can’t I let go..? 
I’m chained up with no hope, 
It’s been eight chapters full of anger 
and no hope, 
I rather let go and gather myself 
with my fracture heart that still bleeds, 
Please let me go

In my head,
it’s an escape room.
I wake up, stuck in a bathroom,
Each wall closing in on me.
Filled with mistakes
and regrets that make me fall.
Bittersweet memories and lost mementos
I hate-
A horrid melody put on repeat.
Each worst memory that I’ve replayed
Feels like a ****** mystery
To a broken scene.
Trying to figure out what happened.
Or if I did wrong in a relationship…

I’ve searched for hope…
Or the answer to it.
In the cracked mirror,
I see a broken self.
That self turns bitter and lonely,
Fading away in the shattered glass
As the time ticks slowly,
Wishing for the world to be better.
Each puzzle is a current problem
that yells and screams in my head.
Turning life into a living hell to solve.
The door won’t budge,
And I can’t find the key.
I keep thinking,
Wishing to be freed.
I get tired of it-
Trying to escape...
In the endless Escape Room…

We create gods
not to make up a story
Or to build a group or a society or a greater city.
We create gods because
We don’t know why we really exist.
We’re scared of the possibility
that we exist just to exist without a reason to exist.
Maybe the only reason that life was created and that we only live
Is just because our only purpose is to be human,
and to be human is to be ourselves.
Makes me think though that when a God gives us love or hope,
It’s basically saying it’s the people that we think of the most, loves us
And was always there for us.
Maybe it’s someone we love is the spirit we look upon.
But who have I pray to all this time
if I’m the only person that feels lonely and lost?

Come to think of it, let this sink in…
We also create a story of how bitter memories shapes us
or how we’ve been that lost soul in the crossroads of no hope
throughout life itself based on strange characters we created throughout history.
You see, when you base on the devil himself that gives you hell,
You tell yourself that it’s the traumas that bring us down.
Our own self hate and anxiety trying to drown us into the dark abyss.
Making us not breathe.
But the only gods we can look upon are us.
We’re the ones to create these thoughts and choices.
Beliefs and crazy stories of ghosts and spirits that
Lies inside our minds
and to let go of the Dead that used to live in our own heads.
To tell people that you’re not alone in this world.

I think the only reason we really exist is to be human.
To think and create stories on our own perceptions
Of life and the beauty and ugliness of our moments to be human.
To express or feel the emotions of bitterness and hope throughout any art.
I’m not an atheist,
Nor a realist,
I’m an artist,
living the beauty and horror
Of the moments from my own perspectives
Of my own story
To be human.

Nature's trees dancing
to the wind's mellow song.
Crimson leaves falling on the
October roads. Letting go of
the trees. Slowly becoming
free on its journey for Peace.

I sit here on the yellow-green grass.
I see a butterfly passing by as the seasons change.
I'm listening to the colder breeze speaking of the
written chapters full of word of wisdom flowing like
a river full of rhythm of realism.


the sun sets into
the October skies,
birds flying through the October path.
Ghosts of the wind singing on the Friday night
of October.

A Tortured Artist,
had always suffered in the dark,
With a fractured heart that was never healed but
Filled with stitches of the scars from the past that lies within.
He never wanted to exist just to be thrown in a locked closet
under the Harvest moon of cold November.
He remembers the burned reminiscences
Of the broken promises and bitter mementos that sends him into
A downward spiral in the deepest darkest pits of the shadows.

He was promised love, and freedom.
Now he’s dead-
forgotten.
He now lives as the wisest artist.
Speaking and throwing ink with the
Rawest words of realism on the canvas of the coldest world.
It shapes the view of the dark Harvest Moon from a closet.

Without a shattered heart,
Or being locked in the dark closet,
how would an artist be inspired of art
if he’s not tortured in this coexisted world
That lies beneath the worst current events?

Each time I’m talking to you,
It feels like walking blindfolded
Through a minefield.
You never care how I feel.
One wrong move and I’m
Thrown on the wheel of misfortunes,
knives hurled at me as I spin
with one sentence:
“I love you”—

Got me weak like kryptonite,
I’ll admit, but that was a lie
and you never meant it.
You tricked me two times,
I’ve gotten attached to your false love,
Caught a disease of heartache,
and end up with rabies filled with
memories I wished I’ve forgotten.
It’s like tossing a grenade at a relationship
that will soon sink like a shipwreck,
drowning in the ocean in bitter,
cold emotions I still hold.

You said to me you hate me,
Told me it’s too late for apologies,
But now you’re calling me at night
because you want me back?

Your love was always fake,
Suffocating me in my mistakes.
Afraid to lose you,
You never really wanted to make amends,
You want me to entertain you
With a show while you complain and say:
“You’re the problem” and how I can’t solve them.

Talking to you,
Feels like taking pills that
will **** me sooner or later.  
Your hollow apologies echo with
Empty words dressed up
in cheap disguise,
Choking me with more lies.
I apologize if I hurt you
but I don’t want to forgive you—
I want to forget you.

BEEP

Hey!
I know you’re not here right now,
and I’ve called you all night,
But I miss you.
Sometimes I wish you were here,
Maybe to hear your voice…
One more time.
Cuz every minute
I fear being alone.
In my own home,
I’m lost in my head.
In my bed, I can’t sleep,
Cuz I dream of you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever
listen to this…
Or if my words are just
echoes lost on the line.

Anyways,
Hope you hear this voicemail,
Cuz I love you—

BEEP

Oh, Hello!
I’m stuck in a ****** asylum
for the mental abused, freaks,
and drug needles that doctors use.
Hollow halls filled with the white voids
of nothingness,
Swallowing white pills to solve my mental problem,
seeing tall shadows that follow me every corner of these walls.
Trapped in the narrow room of the mental prison.
Each day, I wait for freedom
as the time is tickin’,
eatin’ every moment in this room.
I see the broken people walkin’ in crooked ways,
Talkin’ in crooked riddles and rhymes
of wise nonsense about their fractured realities.
Wearing blue gowns to cover their skeletal bodies
filled with scars,
Haunting the hospital rooms with the screams of…
Well, screams--
Or something worse.
The doctors assume they’re insane,
but really they’re in pain.
Those doctors are the ones crazy.
They think the ones broken
are psychos.
I ask for help,
they neglected me—
As I rot in the cell of the asylum
with these broken memories.
Even the dream of hope is locked up
in chains.


Time ticks and I feel like a freak.
They feed me venom through my veins,
Keep me up at night with horrible screams
of pain through my prison.
Time ***** me and I feel like a freak.
I feel hidden and trapped in my burden walls
And I can’t escape.
I wrote poems full of fractured nonsense
of my reality that turns into fantasy
for the shadows that see it.
All I wanted to be is a poet…
To speak the truth…
To be freed and loved…
Now I’m buried in the ****** asylum in
my own head again.
Here, even the dream of hope is locked up
in chains.

You and I
Are in a fight,
And every time
becomes a Cold War.
A war I will hold
forever in my mind,
Frozen in time.
Each moment
I tried to talk to you,
It’s like stepping in a mine field
of arguments.
Each hurtful word
you’ve ever said
Hits like a bomb.

I’m done,
but you haven’t won…
You invade with a fake smile,
All charms and illusions,
Then ignore me,
make me small.
Take my heart
and rip it apart,
Tellin’ me you
“HATE ME”
As you walk away,
Pretending nothing happened.

We could have just talked it out
Instead of acting like babies.
Left out the weapons and walls,
But here we are—
Two fools in a ****** war
Nobody wins.

Run, Rabbit, run—
Reap what you sow.
Run, Rabbit, run—
Follow the river’s flow.
Run, rabbit run—
Just like a gun!
Run, Rabbit, run—
Shadows closin' tight,
With a hunger for a bite.

Run, Rabbit, run—
Before the Raven
Finds your casket.
Run, Rabbit, run!
The Sun will guide you.
Run, Rabbit, run—
Before the Hunter
Strikes down!
Run, Rabbit, run—
Before time runs after you!
Run, Rabbit, run—
Down the river,
wild and wide,
Through midnight’s mellow song,
dark and long—
Yet all paths twist and lead you back
To the tangled track,
the final fight,
To the fading song,
to the edge of night,
where the Hunter hides—
in plain sight.

as I sit on the grounds of the autumn fall
of the forest roads to the unknown,
the surroundings become small.

As I sit there and write
A poem full of reminiscences of
pain and lost souls that echoes the word
"Nevermore".

A butterfly flies and problems fall
like golden leaves from the trees,
becoming free from the tragedy.
But not hidden in the forgotten,
lonesome roads.
Where the ghosts of lost orphans
that lies in the haunted shadows.


A crow follows wherever I go
as the seasons change and the flowers die.
Waiting to bloom the transformation of rebirth
that lies in the forest home. Listening to the gentle
wind singing that mellow song of hope like ghosts.
Watching the gold-orange sun sets into the distance,
disappearing into the Autumn Fall.

If we focus on
the past,
What’s the future?
What’s left of the Present
if all we see are messes
behind us,
worryin’ about the “ifs”—
A ****** surprise birthday gift
we never asked for,
ruined before you’ve
open it.

Dear readers,

I’m not much of a poet,
But I know I’m stuck in a closet,
Writing letters for people
Who’s suffering with the darkest moments
from the coldest people,
Hoping one day, they read it.
I remember someone
told me to seize each minute,
Don’t squander it,
otherwise you’ll be in the casket full of regret
And late wishes to change one thing.

So Instead,
I take something from a broken nothing,
Use my voice for the people to feel heard,
and I never just use words,
I use it as a weapon,
So those raw emotions lurking inside
becomes a burning letter
no one will forget—

Don’t **** the messenger,
I’m writing a letter.